Adrian Mole aged 17 3/4.

After a really disappointing trip to Our Dynamic Earth. (Oh Christ it was shite. I'm actually quite angry you can charge £42 for such a fucking useless 'experience'. Like a community museum had got hold of 50 grand and blew it all on second hand animatronic models from a broken down pier exhibit, a John Hannah voiceover and 3D effects my mad auntie Fuckface created on her Amstrad 2000. When she was dead).

We drove out to Yellowcraigs for a bracing walk on the beach, Christ! it was cold, my bollocks had retracted into my stomach and I was still so angry I was punching seagulls. Eventually I was brought down to earth by a promise of a visit to the Falco Konditomeister cafe in Gullane. Lordy. A cake emporium to make a woman weep. And I mean properly, not small, discreet tears that you might shed at a film or a distant dead relative. I was on my knees, sobbing, snot running down my chin pawing at the cake display case. In the end we sat down at a table, no-one would look at me. I might have embarrassed myself a smidge. Then Adrian Mole aged 17 3/4 came over to serve. Oh, he was wonderful. He was such a pedant. He corrected our pronunciation of all the German cakes, in that patient 'I've got all day' kinda way, so we would repeat his pronunciation. I mean 6 or 7 times until he was satisfied. Only then would he put it in his little order book. Danke Adrian, you really cheered me up.